


Aftermath

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, aftermath of POI 3.10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Devil's Share, Harold looks after John</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> as the summary says, in the aftermath of Devil's Share, Harold looks after John... and waits...

Harold was refolding the white blanket covering John from the waist down for at least the hundredth time. He was itching to take that too-white long-fingered, slim-wristed hand again in his own and hold on to it forever. That hand that could and had killed, that was so amazingly strong but could, at other times be so loving, so gentle, that could bring him to his knees and make him beg for more, that knew him too well and played him like a violin. But Shaw was there, hovering around, and he would not be able to enfold it in his own until she left for the next blood run. So he folded and refolded the blanket, keeping his hands busy and his mind occupied, keeping an eye on the too-still face. At least the monitors were showing that the heart was still beating so there was hope… but that hand, tantalizingly close to his, almost begged to be held.

When they’d finally found John in the building where he intended to kill Alonzo Quinn, and brought him to another one of Finch’s safe house, this one a loft in the Bronx equipped like a hospital room, Finch was sure he’d lost him. John’s pulse was threading, his blood pressure was almost non-existent, and his skin was cold, grey and clammy. Shaw left immediately to bring back supplies, and Harold set about prepping John for what was to come. Upon her return, Shaw, with her medical knowledge, would remove the bullet and repair the additional damage John had caused himself when he went rogue on his rampage. And so, with John on the gurney, he set about cutting of his clothes and peeling off the jacket which John had been wearing for two days, and which was stiff with his and Carter’s blood, the shirt and undershirt, also bloody and stuck to the wound, and everything else John was wearing. Harold then turned around and brought back a basin filled with tepid water and set it near John. He barely heard Bear’s low-throated howl but he could feel him fretting. He imagined how harrowing it would be for the dog to be surrounded by the bloody clothes of his alpha if he, Finch, could barely stomach the sickly-sweet stench of the blood.

His eyes went to the large decorative clock – how fitting that it would appear to tell time but keep it at a standstill, with him poised at this moment in time.  His red-rimmed eyes closed for an instant on unshed tears, his throat tight with unexpressed sobs, and gathering what courage he had left, he wet the soft cloth and started washing the blood off John’s body. The silence around him, the loneliness, the gloomy atmosphere all conspired to give to his task the appearance of preparing a body for burial and he went about his task methodically, trying to remove any feeling from every part of John’s body he was washing. He forced himself to see it as a way of bringing him back to life one limb at a time: the strong arms, the solid neck, the proud chest, the long thighs, the tender belly. He went about his loving work thoroughly, his hands almost worshipping the body of that man he loved so much.

A few hours later, Shaw had come back, washed up speedily, and had removed the bullet, sutured the wound, proceeded to the transfusion, hooked him to an IV drip and attached him to numerous machines and monitors. She had left Harold to dress John in a soft grey t-shirt so he would not be cold and because it would give poor Finch something to do. He had assisted her admirably but he looked about ready to pass out, his face pasty-white, his eyes almost too big for his glasses and his hands starting to shake almost uncontrollably.

While Shaw was washing up in the adjoining bathroom, Finch ran his fingers in John’s still wet hair, fondly bringing the now non-existent cowlick in place with a kiss, and brought a soft, white blanket up to John’s waist. Bear then came by and leaned his big doggy head on John’s hand with a soft whuffling sound – and Harold almost lost it for the umpteenth time that day.

And then he sat down on the chair he’d brought close to the bed and proceeded to wait – he knew he would not be able to do anything else until John regained consciousness. And so here he was, again, folding and refolding that white blanket at John’s waist, waiting for Shaw to leave so he could lay his head on John’s other hand… and wait, and pray, and hope.


End file.
